


Covetous

by persesphone



Series: Spider-Man: College AU [7]
Category: Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Dirty Talk, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Future Fic, PeterMJ - Freeform, Peterchelle, Prompt Fill, Shameless Smut, Smut, Spideychelle, jealous peter is an instigating peter, knowingly in front of of her boyfriend, particularly when it comes to terrible friends to antisocial dorm mates, particularly when said terrible friend of a dorm mate catcalls michelle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-27
Updated: 2017-12-27
Packaged: 2019-02-22 18:29:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13172712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/persesphone/pseuds/persesphone
Summary: There is a record of how many times Peter and Michelle had been intruded upon, mid-session, which should be more surprising than it is, but it would be assumed that someone as secretive as Michelle wouldn't be so terrible about keeping doors closed and locked.But Peter would never admit the little bit of smug he felt when the abhorrent leech-like friend of Peter's dorm mate calls during such private time, the friend who happens to be in Peter's lab class and who has been irking Peter all semester long, shamelessly making catcalls about Michelle while in Peter's presence, and makes the ridiculous request to "borrow condoms" and.Well.Because the leech-like associate doesn't believe Peter could ever date someone like Michelle.Prompt:Peter decides in his smug mind to "forget" to hang up when answering the phone at an inappropriate time. Kind of kinky Spideychelle smut. Also, Flash's boyfriend asks Michelle for advise.





	Covetous

**Author's Note:**

> **the summary sucks, I feel. I know. but I tried.**

There is a record of how many times Peter and Michelle had been intruded upon, mid-session.

That should be more surprising than it is, but noting how _terrible_ she is about closing and _locking_ doors—and for someone as secretive as Michelle Jones, it would be assumed that she'd be _better—it's_ happened more times than appreciated.

Currently, Michelle is sitting through a lecture by Flash Thompson about how he hadn't appreciated walking into _his own goddamn bathroom_ needing to _piss_ , only to find her bare ass sitting on the edge of his sink, and to see the crack of Peter's as she desperately grasps him nearer, mouths meshing together, he holding her thighs high and sloppily, drunkenly, ramming her into the porcelain. Flash still has the image burned into his mind, he tells, and hears her cries in his sleep and it wakes him—it's an exaggeration, Michelle knows, but _still._ And it doesn't matter that it had been at one of Flash's holiday parties; Michelle types a message into a text bubble as he rants. Presses _Send._ Flash hears the sound effect.

"Are you even _listening?_ "  
"Yup," she nods. Scrunches her nose. Looks up. "Hey, but can you tell me—did that skirt make

me look too fat? Or the whole outfit, really?"

"Geez MJ! _I—God—I don't know!_ _What_ skirt? The shirt, maybe though—"

On her phone, Peter replies with an emoji of a skull.

In the background, Flash's boyfriend cleans off the kitchen countertop.

* * *

Peter would never admit the little bit of _smug_ he felt when Flash caught them the first time—it had been after a particular bruising jab about the low number of partners had been a direct correlation to Peter's lack of "cool" masculine appeal and attraction that's hidden behind nerdy vests and shirts buttoned up to his chin—Peter would never admit it aloud, but he felt a little _smug._

After the second time—

* * *

Then there was the situation with Peter's old dorm mate kicking open his bedroom door to accuse Peter of taking his last fucking Poptart he couldn't remember eating himself, and instead had found Michelle's hands down the pants of a very red Peter.

Michelle called the guy nothing but Poptart from then on until he was expelled for drug usage.

But ever since, Peter's remaining dorm mate gets the unspoken memo to always _knock first_. In respect, Peter and Michelle try not to engage unless Peter's dorm is entirely empty—keyword, try. They find exceptions during certain mornings and try to keep quiet during.

It's the morning after a night of kettle popcorn and falling sleep spooning to a suspense movie aired on the Lifetime tv channel. Michelle wakes up on the edge of her empty bed. She fumbles for her phone, yawns, reads that the time is still before noon, combs fingers through her wavy hair, groans in a stretch before dragging off to brush her teeth. There's a spare for him kept in the cup beside her. He's used her Scope mouthwash.

When she returns, she checks her window's lock—still unlocked from the night before—and the discarded sweater that isn't hers has disappeared from her desk chair. She concludes that he must have left before she awoke (again), so, naturally, Michelle isn't hesitant when she begins undressing for a shower—she only stops when her door swings open and Peter catches her bending over as she removes her shorts, her ass bare and in the air, and he nearly _drops_ the cup he's holding. His eyes grow and she's sure that hers are mirroring. Michelle forces her oversized shirt down over her thighs.

"Geez, you could _knock_ next time!"

He sputters, mutters apologies, turning his head away.

"Don't have a heart attack. You've seen me naked before, Peter," her tone bites, shuffling toward him in the doorway. Thumps him on the ass as she exits the room and instead goes to the fridge.

Minute later, he's trailing after her into the kitchen. She's sitting on the counter in her underwear and shirt, eating and peeling an orange, hair tied up sloppily now, gazing out a window. Peter immediately nuzzles between her thighs, gazing up at her. She motions for him to open his mouth and pops in an orange slice. Resting his arms up her thighs and winding behind her, they share the orange for breakfast. It's disrupted only by the chirping of Peter's phone in the pocket of his loose pants.

It's a text message from Ian, a fellow student in his lab class. Now, Ian is not Peter's lab partner, luckily; Ian's lumpy, uncomfortably disorganized, and quite undignified, in Peter's opinion. Ian wears two day old t-shirts, and attends class according to his temperament. He eats string cheese during lectures and thinks bitter Budlight is the pennicle of beer and he double knots his shoelaces and boasts about the number of beer pong he's won before rambling about the assemblage of women's underwear in his drawer which Peter is pretty certain is false, and for some reason, he still wears potent Axe cologne, and he likely has a low score in the class and he cheats. Ian also happens to know Peter's dorm mate. From that, Ian also knows about Michelle. Which is why Peter's staring down at the receiving text that reads: _Hey dude, your roommate gave me your number. Can I borrow one of your Trojans? It's likely you'll have one more than him. He told me_

Peter doesn't want to ask how Ian intends to pay back a borrowed condom.

He doesn't text back.

Later when they inevitably meet face-to-face in class, Peter lies that it hadn't been his number.

* * *

The next thing she knows, Michelle receives a very formal, very forward text message from Flash's boyfriend while she's out on her lunch break. It's a short sentence: _Do you have any suggestions to spice up the bedroom?_

Michelle blinks at the screen, making sure she's read it correctly—the message and the sender; reads it once, twice, and then once more—because this guy is proper and polite and is a _trained gourmet chef_ and Michelle has seen him get _pissed_ over putting socks in the wrong drawer or using a whisk instead of a rubber turner or cracking an egg the wrong way. Michelle rereads the screen, and realizing she hadn't misread, she quickly, puzzled, types back: _**Why ask me when there's Google?**_

There's maybe a minute that passes until her phone chimes: _Little time. I need immediate answers_

_**Again, Google.** _

_That I don't have for he time to sift through it. And Flash trusts you_

**_Trust is a rather big word, she types, dejectedly._ **

_I know_

There aren't any more text messages sent or received. She finds a food stand, gets in line. She's just decided what to order when her phone vibrates in her pocket. It reads, _So do you have any suggestions?_ And she mules over the fact involving how long she's gotten to know him in this past year, versus how long she's known Flash, versus how comfortable she is about revealing her super secret sex life over _text message_ , versus hiding her screen from surrounding passerby. _**Try toys?**_ she types.

Immediately, she receives, _Tried that._

"Jesus Christ!" She's afraid to speak on it further. Instead, she types, _**Tmi**_

_Seriously?_

The food stand line shuffles forward. With the screen off, Michelle bounces her phone between her hands. Her face is heating rather fast. Her phone vibrates again.

_Please Michelle, What do you do ?_

Again, she turns her phone over in her hands. _**Peter is gone right now.**_ It's her turn in line, and she orders a sandwich. After she pays and is walking down the busy sidewalk does she open her messages.

_I meant your ideas, not Peters_

Near reluctantly, she jabs into her phone, _**You can try a challenge. That you have to wait until you see each other until you're**_ , she sends, takes a bite of her food, then, _**You know**_

_Until you touch yourself or until you cum ?_

**_Jesus christ no decency huh_ **

_It's not like there's people reading over my shoulder or in my messages, so no_

**_Very classy_ **

_Thanks_ , blips on her screen and Michelle can feel the sarcasm radiating from the text. Silently, she approves that she had been correct about Flash's taste in guys. She receives then, _How does this game go? I need ideas_

She sputters, has to take a moment to force the mouthful of food down. _**Jesus.**_ She hesitates. **_I'm not giving you details_**

_Good. I don't want any_

* * *

Twice a week—Wednesday and Friday nights at five—Ian sits in front of Peter for lab.

Ian's lazy—it's known, it's _obvious—and_ there's something extremely _irksome_ about the faded Slipknot t-shirt with the spot of spilled coffee stain on the right side, of the way he stares, _glares_ at Peter on the sly. On his phone, Ian's texted request remains unanswered.

Ian yawns a lot, out in the open, and Peter's nose wrinkles. He makes lewd comments about Michelle as if she's some random woman on the streets, and to a person who's a stranger to Ian— and which causes a threatening eyebrow arching to the hairline from Peter in the background; this has been going on for _a while_. Ian carries a thermos that Peter is afraid to know the contents of. And when they separate to their lab groups, Peter goes the other way.

He gets a message from one of his dorm mates asking if Peter ever talked with Ian about _whatever it was_.

Peter's answer is a short, to the point, _**no.**_

* * *

Three days pass and Michelle doesn't get a response from Flash's boyfriend. Nearly a week passes, and her phone doesn't chime with his number; it's not like she was going to _request_ one, anyhow.

She's drinking chilled lemonade through a bending straw when she gets a text from Peter, informing that he's going to be out of town for _**"some time. I don't know when I'll be back."**_ And in his bedroom as he repeats this, she just adjusts his collar, doesn't look him in the eye, says, "I know," and nods. Her hands slide, rest on his shoulders. "I know," she repeats. A wrinkle forms between her eyebrows.

* * *

He leaves and returns on the fourth day. For work, he uses the excuse that he had been in a recent kidnapping by some deranged villain that is later featured on the news; there were four others taken prisoner. Luckily, Peter's boss believes him and doesn't investigate into it.

* * *

Things return to normal. Michelle and Peter wake up in a tangle of limbs, and argue over a pot of coffee, eyes still squinting from sleep, and she ignores him until fifteen minutes into her first cup, because "she needs times to prepare for talk...and the world's bullshit." And she'll dress in tight button downs and he'll ride the subway to work, and if lucky, she'll catch him when he's running off to night classes. She'll cook—or order out—and there would be a plate covered in tin foil for him in the refrigerator. And sometimes she'll stir awake as he slides under the blankets and wraps himself around her and bury his nose in her shirt. And that's it. This is normal. This is _right._

She's _happy,_ she is.

Michelle curls her toes inside her shoes when they kiss. The clasp of her necklace gifted to her years ago slides across her collarbones. Directs her gaze at the logo print of his t-shirt; it isn't new, it isn't quite worn out yet. And she'll _accidentally_ get a drop of apple juice his arm. Or, splash batter on his cheek as she offers all too generously to _lick it off_ —and he'll complain that some got on his fingers too, and then—and then the pancakes take a little longer to make.

* * *

Peter's dorm mate is an uninteresting, irrelevant.

It's early August.

A faint ripples of relief are sweeping through the campus because the summer classes will be ending soon and there's finally been a function his dorm mate had been invited to: a "study group." Peter's not entirely sure what that is or what it means for his dorm mate. Not really. Because all he _does_ know about the hosts are that they are trust fund kids, smelling of cigarettes and weed, and wear Michael Kors and Chanel and they never call when they say they will. And he's watched his dorm mate's crowd—those who rather stay in playing 2K or gather around the back of some unoccupied, forgotten corner on the third floor of the library or in the booths of a greasy fast food restaurant stacking cards; the kind that wear ripped jeans and scruff on their chins. Because Peter Parker's dorm mate is messy and awkward and lackluster. He loudly slurps his Crush from soda cans, and uses his forearms as napkins, shaves his hair to a buzzcut solely so he doesn't have to manage it, keeps his friends a secret and his personal life even more so, and Peter has never, not once had a connecting conversation with him. Peter doesn't quite _care_ to. So that's why he's so confused, so perturbed when he's approached by Ian and then his dorm mate second; it's unsuspecting because Ian is the friend of Peter's _dorm mate_ , and when he's asked by said roommate why Ian is talking shit about Peter, the mutate is just as confused.

Peter's even more so when he's told that Ian has been talking all about what Peter isn't—that he _isn't_ that good in class, that he _isn't_ as chill as he appears and is a delinquent, that Ian _is_ the more prepared one, that Peter _isn't_ reliable, that Peter _isn't_ the one who carries good hygiene and table manners, that Peter _isn't_ truth, that he _isn't_ as he says he is and all his stories are false (especially about Michelle), and Peter isn't, he isn't, he isn't, he isn't, he isn't, he isn't—

Peter doesn't like Ian, either. Sure. He doesn't _care_ about him. He won't give Ian any further attention.

Which is why a deep arching frown carves Peter's face when he trudges from Michelle's shower and her flatmates are gone for the weekend and Peter hears the familiar _ping!_ of a received text message and there's the telltale string of numbers belonging to Peter's abhorrent lab classmate. There's the equally irritating message boasting about a function Ian and Peter's dorm mate are attending—ones that he's now 35% sure involve cocaine as fraternity hazing—and the message informs that the two will: _most definitely be over with some hot broads. Maybe we can say hi to your girl if she's over?_

His nose flares. The hot, celadon green, sickening coil snakes around his gut. He's frowning, the edges of his mouth pulling back because Ian knows about Michelle, and Peter's private life, and he seems to be finding _amusement_ talking about it, and it's dangerous. It's dangerous because he can't let Ian get too familiar, ignore his snooping and poking around for long, or allow his jibes and feeble, fickle attempts at catcalling about Michelle continue on.

He stuffs his phone in his loose pocket. Glances around. He feels like he's being tortured, edged on.

Night-festive fairy light illuminate her bedroom, making the silk robe gathering around her elbows glisten in the lights along with the wrappers of dark chocolate piling beside her. She's is dabbing a sweet scent on the inside of her wrists when Peter's gaze finally lands on Michelle, and he freezes. There's a book opened and marked in front of her. And she looks, a little questioning, that the expression on his face would be suspicious if it weren't for the acute sense of concern when he suddenly grabs her hand in his and asks for reassurance about her feelings for him. An act sense of foreshadowing gathers in her stomach...and then he's kissing her. Slowly, at first, and then needy, desperate, and rough.

She knows about his run-ins with Ian, of the other's graceless dawdling about Michelle and her clothes "suggestions" within earshot. She's talked with him; she knows, obviously.

"MJ," Peter grunts with her teeth sliding from his bottom lip, brilliant brown eyes burning, glazing. "On the bed," rumbles out and his hands hook underneath her knees, and Michele is _unprepared,_ if she's to be honest. This side, the less than half percent when he's taking the initiative isn't regular or routine. He twists a nipple and there's an underlining _growl_ as he commands, " _now_."

She obeys, crawling backwards until her shoulders are hitting the cold wall, shutters, ignoring the loosened, half-assed ponytail her hair is in. Then he's kissing her again, and it's more more _more—_ ravenous, earnest, and assertive. There's a _purpose_ behind his hands on her back and on her cheek; there's a meaning to the _possessiveness_ of his mouth on hers, to the whispered praises about her looks and how her beauty is all for his eyes, no one else's. And then of him asking for confirmation about this. And Michelle only breathlessly saying his name in return because _holy shit_ does she not want to ruin this semi-oftentimes occasion. Plus, watching him lift off his shirt to show sharp planes and muscles is never a bad thing, and then those muscles pressing flat against her. He suddenly abandons her lips, nips along her jaw, teeth _raking_ down to her shoulders where he removes her spaghetti straps with his teeth.

In his pocket, Peter's phone presses against the side of his thigh.

Michelle's fingers wrap in his hair in unneeded guidance to give attention to her small breasts.

Ian is left on _Read._

One of Peter's hands snake between Michelle's thighs, brushes, slides a finger down, begins teasing her through her underwear. His eyes looking up to her are wide and requesting for permission. She whines softly. Bites her lip.

* * *

Sex is—

Sex is _soft._ Pleasant. The smooth sliding of sheets and loving, airy comments of loving or fervor.

Languid kisses and lingering touches. No, _sex_ is.

This isn't—

 _Fucking_ is the grabbing of skin and of sheets with an urgency, a purpose, a _claim._ It's bared teeth, fingers leaving bruises visible come next daylight, of slapping, and it's of tense, immodest ministrations. It's hands an immovable vise around her wrists, and his weight atop her. It's carnal, raunchy, and rushed—it's him grabbing the back of her neck to pull her in for a searing kiss with tongue before diving between her thighs and holding her still and _open,_ mercilessly immobile, until she's unwound twice with his name trembling from her lips. And it's in the growled commands between his teeth and against her heated skin—for her to stay open for him, asks her in a tease how wet is she, and smiles when she moans in reply; it's him pressing one, two, three fingers inside her before complementing her messy hair and bra left unbuckled and barely clinging to her arms. Her back arches, and he's getting ready, stroking himself. Then unzips. Teases her entrance. And Michelle listens to him talk, tisk, praise, tease.

Sex— _loving_ is gentle, affectionate.

Michelle knows this is _fucking_ when she's asked to turn on her stomach, and ass propped, is slapped hard. Twice, three, four times.

He secures her hips. She stops breathing at first when there's pressure, when her muscles are stretched, then sighs, relaxes. His breath is shaking.

* * *

On Peter's phone, Ian's unsaved number has not been replied to. In response, it then flashes across his screen as an incoming call.

On the other side, the party is growing out of control. Ian tells that he's managed to sneak off with a sorority girl through the front door when he thinks it's a plausibly good idea to swing by Peter's before heading home.

On Peter's side, Michelle is slumped down to her elbows, stripped down to her satin black bra, two sets of red teeth marks bruising the curves of her ass, the flat of one palm sliding across the sheets, and she pants, sobs, _whines._ Peter's hips snap and Michelle jerks, gasps, grips the sheets in a death grip, and she shivers, shutters. It's again—his angled hips, she shives, shutters, body quivers and ripples, and she bites down on the side of her lip to hold back a cry.

The ring of his phone is nearly drowned out by her vocals. And Peter almost ignores it. _Almost._

The next thing Michelle registers is him advising her to lower her volume, and then his phone

pressed to his ear followed by a moan and a casual, "h-hey."

Ian begins talking right away, no doubt attempting to make Peter envious about the fraternity and about "the amount of ass he's about to hit tonight." Mid sentence, Peter lets out another moan, slows his motions so that Michelle's made to be whimpering beneath him.

"So, hey man. I realize I'm out. Can I borrow one of those condoms like last time?"

Peter takes a handful of Michelle's backside and squeezes. "F-f-fuckkk..."

"You forgot, huh?"

Peter bites his lip. Slaps Michelle's ass again, and she yelps, pushes back against him. Like a light switch, Peter speeds back up again. Low mantras of his name slips out around short moans.

"Are you home?" Ian questions.

His hips don't stop slapping against Michelle as he hisses into the phone. "I'm—ah- _ahhh_ —I'm a bit—a busy right now."

Over the line, Ian is clueless. "With _what? You?_ I know you're _never_ —"

Beneath Peter, Michelle groans low and unmistakable. She curls into the blankets. Her toes curl.

"I'm... _fuck_ you feel so good!" And at that, Ian knows, and he _hears._ "Gonna have to...Jesus...bye," Peter breaths into the receiver. Tosses it to the side without so much as another thought.

He doesn't press _End Call_. It's partially on purpose.

It's entirely on purpose.

Michelle's lace bra is pushed up above her breasts. She rocks her weight backwards by her elbows, and Peter seizes her hips to angle and spread her asscheeks so that she's just short from _screaming_ throughout her empty apartment flat. Her head tosses back and his name falls in repeat from her lips with an occasional " _yes, God, yes!_ " and " _oh fuck!_ "

Peter leans forward against her back to speak filthy things in her ear as he plows into her. His phone a little memory in his mind, Peter relishes in her sobs and pants, speaking about how wet she is, loving the soft, smooth feeling. About how she "feels so _good,_ baby."

"God I love you...And I love watching you like this..."

On the other end, Ian overhears Peter compliment his girlfriend's tightness. Him give a deep moan. His girlfriend vocal in the background and giving verbal responses to sexual requests. Ian can hear _everything._ Peter compliments her between pants: "You feel so warm... You want me keep fucking you? You want me to own that tight little pus—

In the folds of the bed blankets, Peter's phone call screen turns red.

Peter's phone is lost in the folds of the surrounding blankets, and now, him digging into Michelle's hips, and she's _full._ She's loud and she's full of him and she's full of the realization that she isn't ready for her rapidly approaching release or to lose this and she isn't ready for life to resume, because there's a pile of textbooks needing to be read and essay to write and she isn't ready to accept that responsibility just yet. There's a smile intwined with his panting as his fingers drift down to her clit which makes her _sigh,_ makes her shudder and choke on a broken moan and when she cums, it's sudden and unexpected and she's unintentionally _loud_ about it. He follows after several more minutes and when Michelle's sinking into the mattress with her lip between her teeth.

When it's over, when they're cleaned and gathered in each other's arms, Peter's ankle thumps against his forgotten phone. Michelle is asleep against him. So, he skillfully retrieves his device and presses the phone symbol at the bottom of the screen. Finds _Call Log_. Finds Ian's number.

Peter gets blackmail on the other, finding out that Ian didn't hang up until well after forty minutes.

* * *

Also, needless to say, the rest of the semester was less irksome for Peter and Ian never looks him in the eye confidently.

Michelle is not as confident to find out the follow up about Flash and his boyfriend.

**Author's Note:**

> Please, please, please tell me your thoughts on this :)


End file.
